


the horror here

by onewingedbird



Series: the things we do for love [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewingedbird/pseuds/onewingedbird
Summary: She wonders where Jon is, if he is in a cell, in her bed, if he is in the dirt at her feet.or: Sansa goes south to die.





	the horror here

When they come for her, she does not allow any resistance. Lady Brienne reaches for the pommel of her sword as does Lord Royce, so many men, but Sansa shakes her head. She steps around them and looks coldly at the hand Lady Brienne has on her arm until she drops it. She steps forward and allows the Unsullied to lead her away.

 

The journey south passes quickly. The last time she had traveled these roads, she was full of hope and naivety. Now, she holds the reins of her horse, takes in the snow-covered hills and scared faces of her people as she prepares herself for what comes next. Her face remains impassive. No tears threaten to fall. She eats and rests when she is ordered. She obeys, because it is all so much larger than herself. The weight of it.

 

The Unsullied do not speak to her. She does not even know their names. They use their mother tongue. She is alone in every way. That is alright. It is better to be isolated than to have someone she loves join her in this end. She is suddenly grateful that Bran is as he is now for if he was as he was, he would be beside her in this tent.

 

She holds her finger to the flame of a candle and sucks on the wound after. Dragons are much faster than a pyre. One moment, she will stand before the dragon queen. She will lift her head and die as brave as a Stark. The next, she will be ash in the wind. She swallows. 

 

The closer they get to the capital, the harder it is to breathe. She thinks of her father who even tired and weary from days in a dark cell met his death with dignity. The air forces its way past her leadened heart. And then the time comes. Lord Tyrion greets her but she has no words for him. Her silence was imposed on her, but now it is freedom.

 

“I did warn try to warn you,” he says. There is regret there, desperation, a search for absolution.

 

She wonders where Jon is, if he is in a cell, in her bed, if he is in the dirt at her feet.

 

They arrive at a dais. There he is. He is alive and whole, and her heart thumps its beats more forcefully at the sight of him. His face is as hard as it was at the war council. There is no grief for the lost city in the set of his shoulders, no sympathy for her in his eyes. He looks as if he hates her, and she is so glad for it.

 

The chains on her hands rattle as she walks to stand before him and his queen. She thought there would only be fear now but, in her last moments, that is not what fills her mind. It is the sheer strength of her love for this man, her joy that he lives and will continue to do so. His hair is glossy and his leather jerkin dulled. He is not wearing his Stark armor. That, too, is alright.

 

“Lady Sansa, I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.”

 

The dragon growls but Sansa will not look. This is okay. Her chin is up. Her eyes are on the man she loves. She finds herself nodding. She wants to let him know this is enough.

 

“My queen, Lady Sansa is of the North. If it pleases you, I would carry out your order so that her bones may be buried with my father and brothers.”

 

The queen turns to him sharply. His head is bowed in deference but his eyes meet Daenerys Targaryen’s. There is a softness that shines through their steel. The queen turns back to Sansa, the slightest smirk playing on her lips.

 

“Very well then.”

 

There is Lord Tyrion here, the queen’s Unsullied and Dothraki guards, including Greyworm. There is Jon. These are the last faces she will see. Lord Tyrion’s eyes are bright. Jon unsheathes Longclaw. No one throws her down as they did her father. No one touches her. There is a beat where no one moves. Sansa kneels.

 

The front of her hair is braided back but she has left the back down. She pulls it all to one side to make her neck visible for Jon. The ground is hard beneath her knees. She has not knelt like this in many years, not since she was in this very city, pretending to pray. For a moment, she has the ridiculous hope that Jon’s aim is true enough not to catch the collar of her dress. It does not matter.

 

She breathes in. And out. In. Out. The swing of the blade cuts through the air, and Sansa squeezes her eyes shut. She waits. She waits, and there are only more grunts and the clank of blade against blade.

 

There is blood all around her, bodies strewn haphazardly. The dragon screeches as its head falls to the earth, bolts protruding from its skull. She falls to her side, her arms keeping her upright.

 

Hands reach for her and she screams, scrambling back.

 

“It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright,” someone is saying, but she doesn’t hear. She strikes out. Her blow misses, and then she sees.

 

Arya. “Arya.”

 

“It’s alright now, Sansa.”

 

There is a sob building in her throat. No, a scream. Arya’s expression is earnest, and now that death is not quite so imminent, she can hear the distant sound of a battle. She pushes it down. She takes Arya’s hand and stands.

 

Jon is the length of the dais away, blood dripping from the sword at his side. He does not look at her. The dragon queen is just there, dead. Sansa’s breaths quicken. Had they ever slowed? She steps one foot forward then another. Her body crashes into his. The sword falls. Her arms are around his shoulders, her cheek nuzzling into his. His arms close around her and the cry breaks free.

 

It is an awful sound somewhere between rage and grief. It startles her with its volume. Her legs feel weak beneath her, but he holds onto her. She does not fall. How long do they stand like this, she doesn’t know. Eventually, her wails become sobs and whimpers and sniffles. Her heart steadies itself.

 

She pulls back. Jon ducks his head. She blinks. Her hand finds his. Her voice is rough but her tone is soft when she says, “We must speak, Jon.”

 

His hand fidgets at his side as leads her away. Lord Tyrion’s small body catches her eye. She shudders and moves forward. In the hall, Lady Brienne, armor splashed with blood, bows her head to her as does Lord Royce and Lord Glover and Lord Manderly and men she doesn’t recognize with the look of Dornish men. She nods to each of them as she passes. She wishes she appeared more composed for them, that her face was not wet with despair and relief, but things are as are they are. At least, she walks under her own strength. 

 

Jon opens a door and steps in. Sansa follows him in and turns before Arya can. Arya’s eyes narrow at Jon behind her. She looks up at Sansa and walks away. Sansa swallows.

 

“How?” He asks when she shuts and bars the door.

 

She straightens and faces him. He won’t look at her. “Ravens and hope.” She gives a small shrug. “Bran found a design for a weapon in one of his visions for the dragon, and Gendry built and wielded it. I met with some of the lords discretely to inquire after men who could fight her armies. The Knights of the Vale were the first to rally to the cause. The Dornish, the Iron Islands, the Stormlands, only after the city fell.” Her voice breaks there. Such devastation. “It was only then I knew we had a chance of winning.”

 

He nods.

 

“Did you always know what she was?”

 

He exhales loudly. “I had an idea. I never thought — I knew she was dangerous. I knew, but I never imagined.” He pulls a chair away from a table and sits. His head drops in his hands. When he lifts it, he finally meets her stare. “She talked of burning cities. It was always her first instinct. I worried that if I didn’t do my part to appease her, especially when the North was so clear in their dislike of her, that she would do something terrible to us. Even that day, I thought she might attack the Red Keep, that wildfire would catch and kill thousands. If I had thought she could return the entire city to ash, attack the streets where women and children were running to escape, I… maybe I didn’t want to know.” His voice shakes with his tears. “There were screams everywhere. Children crying. Women being raped. I tried to stop what I could, but it could never be enough. You could taste the dead in the air. It was a slaughter. A massacre. And it could have been the North if I hadn’t done what I did. I condemned these people to protect our family, to protect our home."

 

It is a terrible confession to make. The disgust must be plain on her face for he drops his head back into his hands. “I don’t know that you could have changed anything once you were here. But, Jon, you could have worked with Arya and I. You could have spoken to us. When you pulled your sword, I thought, I thought,” her voice catches.

 

He stands abruptly and comes to her side. “I could never hurt you, Sansa. Everything I did was to protect you.”

 

“But you love _her_ ,” her face crumbles.

 

He cradles her head in his hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks gently. His gaze moves over her face as tender as his fingers in her hair. “Never. How could I? Every day, I walked with terror, thinking it was the day I would be discovered. I woke and slept with it. I pushed you away, because she hated you, because I was afraid for you, but hurting you? I would sooner see the North burn and the world with it.”

 

“That’s horrible.” Her eyes are round. Her body trembles.

 

“It’s the truth,” he says fiercely. “You, Arya and Bran are the most important people in the world to me. I’d sacrifice anything to save you.” She swallows. “And you. Sansa.”

 

Her lips part. She lifts her hands to his. “I have to tell you something horrible now.” A tear runs along her finger to the space their hands meet. “I love you.”

 

He tilts his head with a soft smile. “I love you, too.”

 

“No. I _love_ you. Differently than I should, than how you love me or I love Bran. I love you like… like Mother loved Father.” She drops her eyes. “I don’t want or need anything to happen between us. I understand that you don’t feel the same, and this is not the right time at all. It’s only that I thought I would die today, and you’d never know. I couldn’t tell you before when I thought it might make things harder for you. I can say it now.” Her eyes lift to his shocked face, jaw slack. “It doesn’t have to change anything. I won’t make things difficult or —”

 

“Sansa,” he cuts her off. His lips press to hers gently, and she can taste her tears mixed with his. He pulls back. “I love you.”

 

“Don’t. Don’t say it back because you just want things to be okay between us.”

 

His shoulders drop and he looks around the room before his eyes fall on her again. “Aye. I didn’t have much of a plan, and what I had turned to shit. If I’d sent an emissary or told you what I’d had to do, maybe none of this would have happened.”

 

“Maybe we’d still be dealing with the army of the dead,” she offers.

 

“I can’t regret anything because I don’t know that you would be standing here if I’d acted differently. But I do regret that I hurt you more than anything. I’m sorry.” She nods. “And I do love you. That way. I could live with you hating me, but none of this would mean anything if you weren’t here to do it.”

 

She leans forward. This kiss is deeper. Her tongue brushes against his lower lip. His mouth opens, and their tongues are meeting for a moment before he focuses on her lips again. He walks her backward, arms clutching her to him. Her back hits the wall and her breath leaves her. She sucks it back in, his mouth on her neck.

 

She reaches for his breeches and he for the folds of her dress. Her hand slips into his smallclothes. He is hot and hardening her hand. He groans against her mouth. His fingers slide against her wetness. And she is answering him with a moan. He rubs the nub, a finger inside her, and she strokes him. He is falling apart in front of her, the sight of it only urging her towards her peak.

 

“Gods, I want you.”

 

She grinds against him. Her hips move of their own accord and he matches her rhythm. She is so wet she can hear it but she is too breathless with need to worry over it. He nibbles at her lips, her jaw, her ear.

 

“Oh, please, please, please,” she begs.

 

He slips another finger in and her hands come up to clutch at his jerkin. There is the smallest twinge of pain and his thumb runs in a circle, firmer, and her stomach clenches with pleasure. She is holding onto his arm and can feel his eyes on her face, even with her own closed. He keeps up the movement and, suddenly, she is crying out and shaking against him with release. Her breath stutters and his mouth covers hers to quiet her moan. His touch gentles until he is sliding his hand from her to move it to her waist. He presses soft kisses to her eyelids, cheeks, lips. 

 

Catching her breath, she opens her eyes lazily and reaches for him.

 

“Um, I took care of it,” he says, cheeks red. She smiles and watches as he lifts his fingers to taste her. Now, she is blushing with him.

 

To distract, she tells him, “I’m still terribly angry with you.” His cocks his head, still sucking on his finger. She gives his shoulder a small shove. “Oh, really, Jon, it’s indecent.”

 

He laughs, and she is angry with him. They’ll have to deal with it someday, everything that’s happened. But there are years stretched before them now. Today, Sansa lets the fondness and gratitude for him overwhelm it. She lets herself move forward and taste herself on his lips, to run her nails across the skin of his stomach where his breeches meet his hips. She lets herself have this.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it!


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